Adventures in Babysitting
by alwaysflying
Summary: Roger Davis, sixteen years old, hates babysitting. So how is it that he is now stuck watching little Mo Johnson, Mark Cohen, and Tom Collins?
1. The Mission

**Author's Notes: The inspiration and basic, basic plotline for this story comes from a movie (featuring Anthony Rapp) of the same title. I do not own it. Nor do I own RENT. **

On a chilly March afternoon, Roger Davis and Benny Coffin, best friends, can be found in the former's bedroom, paging through books and magazines and chatting about their respective plans for the evening. The latter, who this evening has not a date but a meeting with his father and therapist, has experienced happier moods in his sixteen years of living thus far, and might even be classified as grumpy.

"I _hate _him," Benny wails. "I can't believe he's making me do this."

"I know, Ben," Roger replies. "You've only told me ninety-seven times."

With the tiniest smirk, Benny repeats, "I hate him."

"Ninety-eight. Look, do you want to just not go? You can hang out with me and April tonight."

Benny shakes his head. "I'd be a third wheel."

The phone rings, but the twosome merely continues on with the conversation. Roger, slightly frustrated, suggests, "Why don't you just tell him you have plans?"

"I can't," Benny replies. "He's had this planned for, like, a month. I just have to go, I guess."

Roger sighs, annoyed. "Then quit bitching about it, okay?"

"Roger!" calls someone from another part of the house. "_Roger!"_

With a groan, Roger yells back, "Yeah, Mom?"

The door opens, and Mrs. Davis pokes her head inside. "Roger, the Cohens called. They were looking for a babysitter, and I told them you could do it."

Wrinkling his nose, Roger inquires, "Cohens – isn't their kid, like, my age?"

"Oh, you mean Mark? Yes, he's thirteen, but they're really looking for a babysitter for someone else too – the daughter of a very close family friend, I hear. Her name is Maureen, and she's seven. And since you don't have plans tonight…"

It is not because Roger has anything against the Cohen family, or babysitting in general, that he says this, but because it is true: "No, Mom, I have a date tonight."

Mrs. Davis looks skeptical. "With who?"

"April Ericcson," he replies promptly.

"She's a little shit, you can cancel," Benny mutters dryly from the bed, where he is flipping through a magazine.

Decisively, Mrs. Roger declares, "I'll call the Cohens back to confirm. You're going whether you like it or not, Roger."

The door closes behind her, leaving the two friends alone. "You're an asshole," Roger informs his friend. "For your information, she is _not _a little shit."

"My bad," Benny mutters, sounding wholly insincere. "Anyways, someone at school told me she's cheating on you."

"With who?" yelps Roger.

"Half the football team," Benny replies smoothly.

Roger tilts his head. "Boys' or girls'?"

"I don't know. Maybe both."

Roger shoves him. "Shut up," he tells his friend playfully, and peeks over to the magazine Benny is reading. "What is that?"

"I found it under your bed," he answers. "It appears to be porn."

"Give it back!" Roger yells.

Benny laughs. "No way, it's hot."

"Fuck off."

Cackling, Benny responds, "No, Roger, that's what _you _do with the magazine."

"Oh, Benny," says Roger, choking back laughter, "you're such a bastard sometimes."

"But you love me anyway," he points out. Looking out the window, he announces, "Look. April's here. Want me to go tell her you had to go somewhere and needed to cancel?"

Roger collapses on his bed with a tremendous sigh. "If I'm not here, why are _you _here?"

"Okay, so you are here, but you're sick. Dying, even," he suggests. "Can I go tell her? Please?"

With a loud groan, Roger shrugs. "Yeah, why not?"

Benny scampers out of the room to do just that, leaving Roger temporarily alone as he decides what revenge to wreak upon Mark and Maureen.

---

_Ding-dong_.

"MARKY!" shrieks a little girl. "MARK-_Y_! I wanna _play_!"

The thirteen-year-old makes his way down the steps. "Mo, do you _ever _stop?" he asks, plopping a Monopoly onto the kitchen table and tucking the lid under the box.

"Nope," she says delightedly. "And guess what? Guess what guess what guess _what_!"

Mark sighs deeply. "What?"

"Your mommy got us a 'sitter! His name is Woger," she expands, stumbling over the name. "Nuh-uh. R-roger. Roger."

"Roger _Davis_?" Mark demands. His heart beats incredibly fast. _Please, god, don't let it be –_

Maureen giggles. "Yep!"

The next things that are heard in the Cohen household are Mark's squeaks as he scampers up the stairs. "Fucking hell," he mutters to himself as he slams the bathroom door behind him. "Where the hell is my zit cream?"

The only answer is Maureen's cackling as she stretches out on her stomach on the floor just outside the bathroom, using Mark's cosmetics to illustrate a picture in her coloring book. "Jesus fucking _CHRIST_!" roars Mark, who is Jewish. "MAUREEN?"

Knuckles drum on the bathroom door, and Mark, mistaking the sound for Maureen kicking the door, yells, "Fuck off!"

"Um, hi to you too," says a new voice, "I'm Roger Davis, I'm babysitting tonight…"

A hissed "Shit!" is heard, as well as the clattering of several items to the floor. "Yeah," Mark calls back, "I'll be out in a minute."

"Okay," Roger responds, and settles down on the floor beside Maureen.

---

Mark has been in the bathroom for exactly nineteen minutes by the time he emerges. As he opens the door to exit, he hears a hissed "Ow!" as the door bangs into Roger's thigh.

"Oh, shit," Mark mumbles as he steps over Roger and Maureen. "Did that hit you? Sorry. I didn't mean to…"

"No big deal," Roger says sleepily. "So you're… Mike, right?"

"Mark," Mark corrects him. "I mean, you can call me Mike if you want."

Maureen pipes up, "Jeez, Mark, you're really obvious."

"Shut up, Maureen," Mark mumbles. He holds out a hand to Roger. When the babysitter merely watches him questioningly, Mark flushes and returns his hand to his pocket. "Yeah. Um, nice to meet you, Roger."

"Likewise," the other boy replies, but he sounds insincere.

Settling down on his heels, Mark inquires conversationally, "How did you get roped into babysitting tonight?"

Roger sighs. "My mother thought it'd be a nice gesture" is all he says, but the bitterness in his voice is enough to tell Mark that there is far more behind it than that.

"Got dumped?" Mark asks sympathetically. "Plans cancelled, needed something to do?"

In a low voice, Roger growls, "Don't be an asshole."

"Oooh!" shrieks Maureen. "You said a bad _word_, Woger!"

Without another word, Roger stands up. Quietly, in Mark's ear, he mutters, "Got any beer?"

"Just wine," Mark replies, almost regretfully. "I'll go get you some, if you want," he adds, and here his voice contains a tinge of enthusiasm, as though he is entertained by the prospect of helping Roger with something.

"Yeah," Roger agrees. "Why don't you do that?" He looks over to Maureen. "You wanna play with a puzzle?" he asks her sweetly.

Maureen's head flies up and down. "Uh-huh!" she squeaks. "Can I, can I go pick one? They're in the basement, where it's cold and shiny."

"I'll go down there with you, actually," Roger decides, not lastly because he feels uncomfortable around Mark. "Oh, and kid – " he adds, turning to Mark abruptly, "meet us downstairs, and make us some food, 'kay?"

Mark nods. "Sure." He descends the stairs towards the kitchen, followed by Maureen and Roger, who branch away from him to go down to the basement. "Red or white?" he asks hastily.

"Red," Roger replies instantly. "And get soda or something for Maureen, 'cause I don't think she's energized enough." He laughs, turning to the little girl, and skates his fingers over her ticklish spots. She giggles madly and squirms in Roger's arms as he starts carrying her down the steps to the basement.

Mark, left to his own devices, takes a wine glass and a plastic cup out of the cabinet and pours the requested liquids into each, then fills up a regular glass with water for himself. He sets the three drinks on the table, then grabs a box of macaroni and cheese from the pantry, sets it on the counter, and begins to boil water in a pot. At that moment, however, the phone rings. Mark is sent zipping across the room, skidding in his socks, and manages to achieve the title of King Irony when he stumbles over the telephone wire. Regaining his balance, Mark grabs the phone and puts it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Hi," comes a crackly voice on the other end. "Roger Davis, please?"

Mark sighs. He leaves the boiling water on the stove, praying he won't regret it for some reason, grabs the three drinks, and says, "Hold on" into the phone. Having been raised with manners, Mark does not scream into the basement for Roger to answer the phone; instead, he carries the three drinks downstairs, sets them on the table at which Roger and Maureen are working on a puzzle, and announces, "Roger, there's someone on the phone for you."

"Really? Weird," Roger muses, and he pushes past Mark to scamper up the stairs. "Where's your phone?" he yells, obviously lacking Mark's manners, but adds, "Never mind!" upon locating the dangling receiver. "Roger speaking," he says into it, audible to the caller as well as Mark and Maureen, who now make their way up the stairs to return to the boiling macaroni.

"Oh, yeah, hey, Benny," comes the voice of the babysitter, distracting Mark as he continuously flickers his gaze back to Roger's rear end. "Wait – you're _where_?"

Mark's ears perk up. So this _isn't _a purely social call. Or is it?

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Roger growls. Mark belatedly slaps his hands onto Maureen's ears, though he doesn't really care. What business is it of his if she goes tattling back to her parents? All it means is that she won't visit as frequently, which can really only be a blessing. But again, his thoughts are interrupted by Roger's inane chatter. "_God_, Benny. Do I _have _to?"

Benny. Mark knows Benny Coffin all too well. Even though Mark is but a lowly ninth-grader and Benny is with Roger in the high school's junior class, Mark has heard of the older boy, and has, in fact, has been beaten up by him on several occasions. Case in point: one day, Mark's curiosity got the better of him, and he strolled through the juniors and seniors' parking lot, hoping to see exactly why it was the most popular hangout among the upperclassmen, even those without cars. While strolling between parking spaces, he found himself hoisted into the air by the back of his collar, his life threatened in a low growl, should he ever deign to touch a particular car again. Of course, Mark _hadn't _touched the car, but, terrified, he had had no choice but to scuttle away in fright.

"Okay, well, yeah. Sure. I'll be there in an hour, 'kay?"

Roger hangs up the phone. Mark turns an inquisitive gaze to him, and Roger hurriedly asks, "Either of your parents have a car they didn't take to the… whatever?"

"Yeah, in the garage," Mark replies promptly. He doesn't want to pressure Roger, but he can't help but ask, "Are you… leaving?"

"Yeah," Roger answers, poking his head into the door that leads to the garage. "Excellent," he muses. "Keys?"

Mark points to a spot on the counter. Roger gives him a look, and Mark nods. "Right." He crosses the room to retrieve said keying, drops it into Roger's hands, and turns his attention back to the boiling water.

"Wait!" Maureen shrieks. She scampers across the room. "Woger! Don't _leave_!" she wails.

Roger sighs. "Look, my friend Benny got stuck in a train station, okay? He was in New York tonight, and he was supposed to take a train home, but… well, it didn't work out."

"Clearly," Mark drawls. Roger snaps his head around to fix a glare upon Mark, who blushes. "Sorry."

"Whatever," Roger snaps. "So yeah, Mo, I gotta go." He turns towards the door and takes a step closer to it, but is interrupted by Maureen's shrill wail.

"No-ooooo!" she howls. "Take me with you!" Then, a devious grin forms on her face. "If you don't take me with you, I'm gonna _tell Mommy and Daddy_. Or Marky's Mommy and Daddy. Then they'll be _mad_ at you."

Roger growls low under his breath. "Listen, Maureen," he says slowly, enunciating every word. "This is not the time to fuck with me."

Maureen giggles. "I could tell them you said _that_, and you'd never get a job again!" she shrieks. At the same moment, an oblivious Mark crosses the room, retrieves three bowls, and begins scooping pasta into each one.

"Fine," Roger growls, and he yanks a bowl away from Mark, as well as the spoon he used to divide up the macaroni. "Fine, Maureen, you can come. Cohen – you stay here, and don't tell your parents, okay?"

"Sure," Mark replies calmly. "If they call, I'll just tell Mom and Dad you went out for ice cream, and I wasn't feeling well. That okay with you?"

Roger nods. "Fine."

There is a rap at the front door. Mark scampers to it, knowing that the chances of Roger doing so are highly improbable. The familiar face of Tom Collins pokes its way into the door. "Hey," says Mark's best friend cheerfully. "Maureen still here, or is it safe?"

"She's just about to leave for a road trip with her babysitter," Mark mumbles vengefully.

"And you turned that opportunity _down_?" Collins asks incredulously. "I thought he was hot."

Mark nods. "He is," he whispers, hoping Roger doesn't hear. "But, um, you know… I didn't want to bug him. I was making him macaroni and cheese and pouring wine for him and stuff, and I thought maybe if I did that, he'd like me, so it would be stupid to ruin that by being an asshole. Even if he thinks I already am one…"

"God, Mark," sighs Collins. "You really need to start standing up for yourself." He grabs his friend's wrist and drags Mark towards the driveway, where Roger and Maureen sit in the driver and front passengers' seats in Mrs. Cohen's car. The two are halfway down the driveway, but that does not stop Collins from interrupting their trip.

Collins taps on Roger's window. "Let us in," he orders Roger. "No way are you making Mark feel like shit over your power trip. Unlock the doors."

Roger turns to Maureen, who explains, "That's Mark's best friend Collins. He's nice but weird."

The lock clicks open, and without another word, Collins pulls the stammering Mark into the car. "Drive," says the former, and Roger does not hesitate to do so.

"I'm Roger Davis," he says into the mirror allowing him to see Mark and Collins. "We are going to Penn Station to pick up my friend, who's kind of stranded. If I get _any _grief over the next two hours, you three children will not live to tell the tale. Clear?"

Roger either does not notice or does not care that Mark is filming him, the lens of his camera poking out and gazing into the car mirror. Roger's eyes sparkle due to an unrelated cause as Mark murmurs his signature date and time into the movie.

"Clear," Mark says brightly, and he hopes Roger doesn't think he's being rude, because that's just something he doesn't know if he can handle right now.

"Wait," Collins interrupts. "How are you planning to kill us?"

Roger shrugs, mildly entertained by this kid's gall. "Stabbing? I don't know."

"How about raped?" Collins mutters to himself, too quietly for Roger to hear. In Mark's ear, he whispers, "You're right. The boy is _hot_."

"Hey," Mark protests weakly. "He's mine."

Collins laughs. "Profess your love for him by the end of the night and you can have him, Cohen. If not…"

"I'll do it," Mark interrupts.

Maureen, bouncing up and down in her seat, wails, "Woger! Let's do something fun!"

Roger, whose anger is slowly ebbing in the presence of cheerful little Maureen, suggests, "How about a sing-along?"


	2. The Argument

Driving, driving, driving.

Mark, from the backseat, stares at Roger unblinkingly. His lips form the unspoken words "So gorgeous." Collins sees Mark mouth these words, but says nothing. If Mark wants Roger so badly, he can have him. After all, Mark doesn't interfere when there's someone Collins likes. Why? Probably because he doesn't notice, he's too busy staring at Roger.

"So," says Roger conversationally, "Cohen, did you bring any of that mac and cheese?"

Mark nods. "Yeah," he mutters. "Um, there's only three bowls, so here." He takes the plastic-wrapped bowls of macaroni and offers one each to Roger, Maureen, and Collins. "I, uh, I didn't bring spoons. Sorry."

Roger whistles obnoxiously as he scoops some macaroni up with his hand and shoves it into his mouth. Mark stares at his feet, and Collins makes a "whipped" gesture. "Owned," he sings under his breath, mouth full of fake-pasta.

"This is shit," Roger announces. Mark blushes furiously.

"Sorry," he mumbles. "I… I never made mac and cheese before."

Roger cackles. "Then why'd you offer?" he demands.

Mark has no response. Actually, he does have a response, but he does not dare verbalize it. It would ruin every chance he has at forming a relationship with Roger – a friendship, that is. Roger isn't like Mark, isn't gay. Mark knows that. Nobody so poised and perfect could be… could be…

"Yeah, Mark, this is shit," Roger repeats, and rolls down the window. As Mark looks on in disappointment and self-loathing, Roger upends the bowl of macaroni, dangling it outside the window. Mark winces. _I can't do anything right. Nothing I do is good enough. God… _

Collins sees this, or at least senses it, and throws an arm over Mark's shoulder. "He's sensitive," he tells Roger solemnly.

"Aww, did I hurt the little kid's feelings?" Roger mocks. Mark flushes, and Maureen giggles.

"You're funny, Roggy," she decrees happily. "You're funny lots."

Roger ruffles Maureen's hair. "Hey, thanks." She beams at him, smiling hugely, as Mark merely watches in longing. He wants Roger to ruffle _his _hair. He wants Roger to smile at _him_. He wants to be next to Roger, and he wants to –

"Mark."

"Huh?" Mark looks up to find a very amused Collins watching him.

Smirking, Collins declares, "Mark. You're drooling."

Mark swipes the saliva off of his chin. "Ew," he mutters, and sinks his chin into his palms.

"Ha," laughs Roger. "Maureen, do _you _drool?"

Maureen laughs. "Nuh-uh. Marky wets the bed, too. I heard his mommy telling him he got a stain on the sheetses, and he said he can't help what dreams he gets. Nightmares, I guess."

Roger chokes back a laugh. "Oh, Mark, who were you dreaming about?" he asks through snickers.

As Mark reddens and looks like he is about to faint, Collins hastily interjects, "Maybe it's his crush. You know, on that girl April… Ericcson, I think?"

Roger spins around. "Hey, kid," he growls. "You keep your fucking eyes off my girl, you bastard, or I'll fucking kill you."

Mark squeaks and huddles his legs to his chest. "Shit," he whispers, head against his knees. "I don't," he mumbles. "I don't, I don't like her. I don't." His breathing quickens, but Mark says not a word, and just clutches his head between his knees and stares at the seat.

"April's _mine_," Roger declares loudly. Maureen snorts.

"A person can't be _yours_," she sneers.

Roger ignores her, keeping his eyes on the road. Collins watches him, watches as Roger drums his fingers against the steering wheel as though tapping out a musical pattern. "So, Roger," he says conversationally. "Are you going to college?"

Mark's head jerks up. _Oh, god. _

"Nope," Roger says proudly. Mark breathes a loud sigh of relief. Not hearing that, Roger continues, "I'm moving to the city. You know. _The _city. Manhattan, baby!"

Mark curls up in the tiniest ball possible, laying his head on his knees and clutching the soles of his shoes. "When?" he whispers.

"When?" repeats Collins, loud enough for Roger to hear.

Roger shrugs. "I dunno… tomorrow, next week, next year? Could be whenever. Whenever I can get the money, enough for a bus ticket and a guitar."

Mark brightens. _Maybe that would make him happier_, he thinks excitedly. _I could do that… I could sell my camera, or use my bar mitzvah money… and then he'd like me. _His smile is incomparable, and Mark is already counting up bills in his mind. Collins, practically reading his friend's mind, laughs. "Do you take gifts from people trying to get you out of suburbia faster?"

"Sure," laughs Roger, obviously scorning the very idea. "Never gonna get me a girl with that kind of cash."

Blushing furiously, Mark stares out the window. _Awkward_.

"So you're not, you know, open?" Collins asks casually. "You know, a wee bit crooked in your sexuality?"

Roger shrugs. "Eh. Guys, you know, if they can be effeminate and I don't have to pay them, you know, they're fine. As long as they can give decent head."

"So it's sex," clarifies Collins.

With a laugh, Roger agrees, "Yeah." He snorts. "Why? You interested?"

"Hardly," Collins scoffs. "I just know someone who is."

Roger snickers. "Who? Fag-boy back there?" It is said in fun, but it drives Mark to a gasp and Collins to a red face and whitening knuckles as they clench the armrest separating him from Mark.

Collins clenches his fists. "Don't say _that_," he snaps. "Don't talk like that, you asshole."

"Well, sorry," Roger mutters, taken by surprise. "Didn't know you were so sensitive. Why? You one of 'em?"

"And if I am?" Collins shoots back. "Doesn't make it right."

Roger smirks. "Nobody would take offense."

"Mark might," Collins sneers. "I might. How do you _know_?"

With his hands in the air, Roger grumbles, "I know when I'm beaten. I don't know why you're making a big deal about this, but…"

"It's just not socially acceptable," Collins tells him calmly. "You can't just do shit like that."

Roger shakes his head. "I… I disagree, that's all."

"Well, that's your right," says Collins, "but don't go saying shit like that."

In the hectic debate, all said of Mark's crush on Roger is forgotten, and the boy is left to hide his head in his hands and knees, trying to be invisible, just as always. Maureen sings softly, her voice ringing throughout the car even though it is hidden beneath the argument of Roger and Collins. Her tune is undecipherable, her key incorrect, and the lyrics nonsensical, but Mark is entertained, and lulled to sleep.

Briefly, that is.


	3. The Negotiation

"Hey, Roger?" Mark asks casually.

"What the fuck do you want?" Roger snarls back.

Mark recoils, muttering something along the lines of "forget it." His hair falls into his eyes, his glasses loosely grasping his ears. "Sorry."

"Hey, man, relax," Roger half-whines from the front seat. "Don't be so fricking uptight. You don't have to apologize for everything."

Blushing, Mark mumbles again, "Sorry."

Roger throws his hands into the air.

Several things happen at once.

First, Maureen shrieks, "Both hands on the _wheel!"_ Being eight, Maureen is well-versed in the unending catechism provided by public elementary schools – _eyes on the road two hands on the wheel don't drink don't smoke don't do drugs never kiss boys they have cooties don't put anything from the ground in your mouth never never never never never talk to strangers_.

The next thing that happens in this instant is that by throwing his hands in the air, Roger's elbow nudges the steering wheel, forcing the car onto the dotted line separating the lanes. The immediate excuse would be that hey, _this is the highway_, changing lanes is allowed here and nobody even cares when it isn't. However, it is a bad choice as the enormous truck on the other lane opposite this one has also made the decision to turn. So Roger, in an instant of panic, jerks his car hurriedly onto the side of the road.

And from there, it refuses to budge.

Gas tank: Empty.

Front left wheel: Punctured.

Spare tire: Nonexistant.

"Oh, _fuck_."

"Bad word!" Maureen howls, a siren in the darkness. "Bad word!"

Roger rolls his eyes. "Are you the curse police?" he sneers. Maureen nods happily, her curls bouncing all over her shoulders. "Listen, you," Roger mock-growls, and would begin to tickle her. However, the giggle-fest is interrupted by a tap at the window. There stands a man, his beard grizzly and eyes electric blue.

"Hello there," he says in a low growl as Roger cranks the window down. "Couldn't help but notice that you're stuck."

Roger, suddenly acting the part of the angel-boy he plays in the presence of any adult save his teachers, smiles charmingly. "So we are," he decrees. Collins, in the back seat, guffaws and shakes with amusement while Mark, huddled inside an enormous sweatshirt he found on the floor of the car, shakes with terror. He does not know why he is afraid, but he is.

"You want help?" the man offers, his bronze teeth glittering in a crude imitation of a smile.

Maureen, ever the smart-aleck, slowly shakes her head.

"We'd love it," Roger replies smoothly. "Free of charge?"

The man snorts. "No. Fifty for a tire, eighty to tow you to a gas station." He casually leans against a tree, waiting for Roger to ponder the offer.

"No way," Roger snaps. "Don't got that money. Sorry."

Meekly, Mark pipes up, "I'd pay."

"Oh, _yeah_!" Roger yells suddenly. "I'll sell you that kid back there! You can keep him for, I dunno, the night or the week or something. Hell, I don't want him. I just need to bring him back to his parents tonight." Conspiratorily, he adds, "I'm _babysitting_."

The man chuckles as Mark repeats, "I'll pay. I'll pay for the… the tire, and the towing."

"Then it's settled," Roger says decisively, and strides forth towards the man's vehicle while the beat-up Oldsmobile is attatched to the truck.

In the truck, babysitter and babysittees alike are cramped into a tiny space. Mark is huddled on the floor in front of the actual seat, Roger's legs dangling on either side of the boy's neck and Maureen's giggles ringing through his line of hearing. Collins is in the back, stretched out across the narrow seat, no room for his feet had he sat normally and additional comfort when leaning in this way. Driving is the man who terrifies Mark, fascinates Collins, amuses Maureen, and jokes casually with Roger.

"So," says the man, "where you going?"

Dryly, Collins declares, "Picking up Roger's friend Benny from the train station."

"Oooh!" wails Maureen. "You said _names_! You can't say names to strangers!"

Solemn and unfazed, Collins points out, "Then how will they ever _not _be strangers?"

Maureen tilts her head. "Guess you can, then," she says plainly, shrugging. "Mommy says stupid things sometimes."

"You're only just now realizing this?" Mark near-whispers. In a murmur directed toward nobody in particular, he explains, "Her mom's my aunt. Well, adoptive aunt. I'm adopted."

Roger snorts. "Why do you think I care?" he demands.

Mark shudders. "Sorry," he whispers, lip quivering.

"Mark," Collins growls, "you've said 'sorry' more times tonight than I've ever heard you say before. Lighten up, dude. Really, Roger's right. You gotta cool down."

Mark says nothing.

"So lemme get this straight," says the driver. "You – " he points to Roger – "are babysitting him, him, and her?" He gestures vaguely towards Mark, Collins, and Maureen in abrupt succession. "Why you goin' on the highway to babysit?"

Roger sighs. "My asshole friend Benny got stuck somewhere and needs to get picked up," he explains for the fifth time.

"WORD POLICE!" Maureen and Collins shriek simultaneously. For the latter, it is through hysterical cackles; for the former, it is a serious plea for Roger to stop swearing. For neither does it work, because Roger proceeds to respond with a string of curses forcing Mark to stop shaking and actually wonder whether or not it would _work_, what Roger is saying, because something _that big _can't fit in something _there _unless maybe the something small was Mark's mouth and the something big was –

"Yo, Mark," says Roger, none too gently prodding the younger boy with his foot. Mark winces and looks up, self-conscious of how tiny he looks, how scared and young and inferior he feels, and probably looks, and probably _is_. "Cohen. Fucker." Mark trembles, but looks. "Get your money out, goddamnit."

Mark nods, plunging his hand into his shirt pocket. "Oh," he whispers in panic. "Oh, no…"

"You fucking _moron!" _Roger yells. "You forgot your fucking money? Little fucking _bastard_!" He slams his foot into Mark's lap. "Now what the hell are we supposed to do?"

Collins tries to interject, but is cut off by a sniffle from Maureen. As she looks into her babysitter's eyes, Maureen whimpers, "Don't yell. 'S scary."

"Hey, sorry," he snarls, "but it isn't my fault the little asshole decided not to check if he had money. What the fuck am I supposed to use to pay for this now?" He looks at the driver and cheekily inquires, "What if Mark blew you?"

Collins hastily reaches over to the front seat, retrieves Maureen, and sets her on his own lap. "Close your ears," he instructs, and places his big hands over the girl's ears anyway to prevent her from being exposed to the dirty, seedy world of Roger Davis.

Calm and unfazed, the driver shrugs. "Sure, I guess."

Mark trembles. "Hey, asshole," Roger growls. "You got us into this shit, you're gonna fix it. You _got _that?"

With the tiniest of nods, Mark whimpers, "Uh-huh." He knows better than to disobey Roger. He only wants to please him, to be good and make Roger happy. "W…when?"

"Hey," says the driver. "If you don't wanna do it, whatever, man. You can just – "

"No," interrupts Roger firmly. "He'll do it. Won't you?" he demands.

Mark nods.

"Okay," says Collins hurriedly, "um, no, he _won't_. That's really fucked up, Roger, and you're _babysitting_, and Mark is thirteen, and you just have to chill. Okay? Find another way to pay him."

Hesitant, Mark suggests, "I could give you my camera. It's, it's worth at least a hundred fifty – at least, that's what my dad got it for, and he's Jewish, so he manages to get the price down a lot before he buys stuff…"

"A hundred fifty?" the driver asks skeptically. "Eh. Fine. Whatever. It in your car in the back?"

Mark nods. "I'll get it when we, uh, when we get there. To the gas station, I mean."

"Fine," says the driver.

"Fine," echo Roger and Collins.

"Fine," Mark says.

Maureen laughs. "Fine," she chirps.


	4. At First Glance

"Here," says Mark in a tiny voice, holding his camera out and staring at his feet.

Collins grabs it, plunges a hand into his own pocket, and fans out an array of bills. "Hundred fifty?" he asks the driver. "You got it." He thrusts the money into the man's hand, settles himself in the newly-repaired car, and straps Maureen in beside him. The camera lays unforgotten on the armrest between Maureen and Collins.

Just outside the car, Roger glares at Mark. "See all the shit you cause?" he hisses in the younger boy's ear. "You make other people do shit that you say you're going to do. So fucking ungrateful, too."

Mark trembles. "I know," he whimpers. "I'm sorry."

"Hey, kid," says Roger in a growl, "look. You're fucking annoying, okay? You shut up, or you be a fucking normal person. Don't go whining about shit and saying you're sorry all the time. Got it?"

Mark nods.

"Hey," says Roger, and his tone is almost friendly. "Look. Okay, are you scared of me or something?"

The tiniest of nods on Mark's part takes Roger aback, but he does not show his astonishment. "Why?" Roger demands. His green eyes are ablaze, challenging Mark to respond with anything other than a remark complimenting Roger's great strength and sex appeal.

"I dunno," Mark mumbles. It is a lie, which is evident to both himself and Roger. The truth, which Roger is just beginning to suspect, is a forbidden utterance. Had either Roger or Mark been a girl, still, it would be a barren world of words; one is the babysitter, the next the charge, and a romance between them can never be. Such is the mindset of Mark, in particular, and probably the expressionless Roger as well.

Roger's hand falls on Mark's shoulder. "Okay, well, whatever. Just don't go whimpering and shit, a'right?

Mark nods. _He's touching me. He's **touching **me_. It is all he can do to keep from trembling as Roger shrugs. "You wanna sit up front?" he asks, peering into the car to see Collins and Maureen conversing in the backseat.

"Sure," half-whispers Mark. As he makes his way over to the passenger door of the car, he catches Collins' eye. On each boy, a single eyelid flickers in either a wink or a blink, and Mark's face betrays his excitement. To his best friend, Mark mouths, "He touched me." Collins dramatically rolls his eyes, but inwardly praises the boy on his achievement: the ability to look at Roger without trembling. A gay crush is still a crush, and this is just as much an accomplishment for Mark as it is for an eighth-grade girl whose eyes are on a particularly varsity player.

"So," says Roger loudly as they set off once more for the train station, "you guys want to stop for a snack or something?"

Maureen shrieks, "ICE CREAM!"

"I guess that's a yes," Roger snickers. Without another word, he sharply jerks the car into a McDonalds drive-through.

"That's not ice cream," Collins remarks.

Roger chortles. "You're so wrong, bitch," he tells Collins affectionately. Maureen squeaks indignantly, but the lure of ice cream prevents her from saying a word. Roger, meanwhile, slides the car up beside the drive-through teller and declares, "Four ice creams, please." Some sum under five dollars is recited, and Roger distributes the ice creams among himself and his babysitting charges.

"I hate it," Collins says, but he is naturally argumentative and opposed to corporations like McDonalds. Maureen, beside him, voices her delight, although naturally adds that she's "had better." Roger knows her well enough by now to take it as a compliment.

"Mark?" asks Roger, swiveling around to face his babysitting charge. "What do you think?"

Taken aback, Mark does his best to be abivalent. "Um… you know, it's good, it's… it's… I mean, it's McDonalds, but it's good."

Roger laughs. "Well said," he tells Mark, and claps him on the shoulder.

For a moment, all that is audible is Mark's sharp intake of breath due to being touched by Roger, Maureen's gentle hum, and Collins' slow cackle that reminds Mark of his mother – his adoptive mother, that is; Maureen's aunt – in one of her particularly drunken stupors. In the very way that an intoxicated Mark is bold and expressive, his mother is explosive and utterly hysterical.

"Hey, Mark?" asks Roger sharply.

Mark looks up. "Yeah?"

"You know how to get there, right?"

Mark's elbow wavering in its attempts to support his chin, he stammers, "Um – uh – to Penn Station, you mean?"

"No, idiot, to New Jersey. Of _course _Penn Station. You know how to get there, huh?"

Unsure, Mark vaguely replies, "Um… I'm not so good with directions."

"Can you _get _there?" Roger demands in exasperation.

"N-no," Mark mumbles. "I don't know how, I've never been to the city!"

"I know how to get there," Collins interjects.

Roger ignores him. "Wait, wait, wait. Mark – you've _never been to the city_?" he repeats, incredulous.

Mark shakes his head. "Um… is that bad? I know I was born in Brooklyn, but I can't remember it and I was only there for maybe a day…"

Sighing dramatically, Roger lays a hand on Mark's shoulder. "This is your lucky day, then, Cohen. You're going into Manhattan. The big city. Anything you particularly want to see? We got plenty of time, I promise."

Mark hesitates. "Well, there is one thing…"

"Go for it," prods Roger.

After a long sigh, Mark asks cautiously, "Can we drive by… um… well, see, my sister, she lives in the East Village. Have you heard of it?"

"I have," Collins says swiftly. "I know how to get there, no problem. Rog, when you get to the exit, I'll just – "

"Did you just call me Rog?" Roger inquires, amused. "That's so strange. I don't think anyone's ever called me that before. Tom."

Collins shudders. "That's enough out of you, Roger," he mumbles.

Roger snickers. "Yeah." He sharply swerves into the entrance to Exit Two, cutting in front of an agitated Mercedes driver. "He had it coming," Roger declares. "You gonna drive a fancy car, you're gonna get miffed, asshole!" he yells at the honking car just behind him.

"Welcome to the city, Mark," an amused Collins says to the gaping Mark, whose nose is pressed against the window glass.

Roger snickers. "Mo? You been here before?"

"Yep," says the little girl, pleased. "Have you?"

"Of course," Roger responds. "Mark, enjoy your first trip here, 'kay?"

Mark says nothing, staring out the window as the beautiful city slides into his line of vision. "I think…" he says at last, "I think… I think we're going to have to spend a _long _time here."


	5. Discouraged Acts

**Author's Notes: This is probably rated R, here. I don't know – it'd be an _extremely _light R, since all it does is _mention _sex. Oral sex. If you think it's R, please tell me.**

"Hey, Roger?" asks Collins suddenly.

"Mhm?"

With a sly grin, he jerks his head toward an unidentifyable building just outside the window. "What time are we picking up your friend?"

"Nine," says Roger promptly. He peers out the window to get a good look at the building in question. "What is it?"

"Bi strip club," chorus Collins and Mark, both of whom appear to be transfixed. In a voice reminiscent of Maureen's, Collins playfully begs, "Pretty pretty _please_?"

Roger shrugs. "I would, but what 'bout Mo and the kid?"

"Hey," objects Mark. "I'm the same age as Collins."

"If you wanna see naked people, I'm not gonna tell you you can't," Roger says with a shrug. "But what about Maureen?"

Mark and Collins simultaneously swivel around to face the little girl, shrugging.

"Eh," says Collins dryly. "If she's not thoroughly corrupted by now, it's a lost case. I figure we might as well bring her in. Hmm?"

Roger shrugs. "If they let her bring in, sure. Whatever."

As it turns out, everyone is allowed in the strip club – despite the sign saying "Adults Only," of course. Maureen is held in the mass of people in Mark's arms while Roger and Collins converse eagerly, jabbing fingers at the performers and making approving (or disapproving) comments. As a young man saunters out on the stage, Roger whistles and Collins whips a dollar out of his shirt pocket and waves it in the air.

"Much appreciated," murmurs the man – who is no more than a boy, really – as he takes the dollar. As he leans over Mark, the latter winces. This guy can't be more than twenty. Mark says as much, and Roger looks at him blankly.

"I'm a _teenager_," Roger points out. "I can stare at whoever the fuck I want."

"Except, like, Maureen," says Collins wisely. "It would be socially unacceptable for anyone to stare at Maureen. Just not the best idea, you know?"

Roger snickers. "Just wait." He tickles Maureen's chin and prophesizes, "When she grows up, there'll be guys fawning all over her."

"And girls!" adds Collins for either political correctness or the fact that he has a natural preference for the homosexual.

Mark turns to his friends behind him and holds Maureen out to them. "Bathroom," he says hastily, and begins making his way out of the club. Collins and Roger watch him leave, leaving the latter to wonder where he is _really _going. Collins, however, already knows Mark's destination. Thirteen though the boy is, he too experiences sexual frustration, and his money is as good as anyone's. Collins' concern, however, is the fact that this is New York, and he knows all about diseases and the like.

"Let's go," says Collins to Roger in a low mutter. Roger complies, bouncing Maureen higher in his arms as he stands up. Maureen sleepily asks as to their destination, and Collins sympathetically asks, "Are you tired, kid?"

Maureen nods. It is true. Her eyes are closed, her head resting on Roger's shoulder. "I've babysat before," Roger says in the quietest voice he can while still being audible. "And I've babysat kids just her age. If I'd known, in the past, that a drive to the city would get them to _shut up_, you can believe that there'd be more Scarsdale kids on milk cartons."

It takes Collins a moment to fully process Roger's statement before he laughs. "Hey, that's – " he begins, but breaks off upon peering into the alleyway separating the strip club from its neighboring building. "Holy shit."

"What?" asks Roger, who is making immense effort to keep Maureen in his arms and walk at the same time. "Fuck, she's heavy," he mutters. Upon waddling over to the alleyway, Roger sharply inhales. "Fuck."

A tiny blond head – Mark's, obviously – is the only source of light in the alley, but it is located at such a height that Roger instantly knows what is going on. Even if that were _not _a sufficient clue, the gargling noises audible would certainly be a dead giveaway as Mark gulps and the man standing before him lets out gutteral moans.

"Oh, _shit_," says Collins under his breath.

"MARK!" yells Roger. It then strikes him as odd that his first-ever burst of babysitting-related feelings occurs upon finding his thirteen-year-old charge giving a New Yorker a blow job. "Mark! Get the fuck away from him! Jesus!"

It is obviously a great discomfort to the man above Mark as the thirteen-year-old spins around to see Roger. While the anonymous man is probably quite put out, nothing can match the horrified, terrified expression on Mark's face. His lips form three syllables – probably "Oh my god" – before he wipes his mouth on his arm and gets to his feet. "Oh my god," he says, this time aloud, and he springs to his feet.

"So do you do that often?" Roger asks casually. It is now an enormous advantage that Maureen is asleep, because had she witnessed something of that magnitude, it is likely that Roger would not be paid for this excursion, and thus much the poorer for all the money he has spent on gas.

Mark buries his head in his hands. "Don't hate me," he mutters. "God. I don't even know – I just – I don't even – "

"Hey!" says Roger swiftly. "Shut up. Okay? You repeat it over and over again, you'll end up mentioning it in front of your mom, and I'll get fired. I know that for a fact. Just shut up. I don't care who you blow as long as I'm not babysitting when you do it, okay?"

Mark is startled, his blue eyes wide. "You don't care?" he asks.

"I just said I don't, so I don't," Roger snorts. "You think I'm a girl or something? 'Oh, no, Roger honey, I don't care if you shower… take a fucking shower, bitch!'" he chirps in a very bad falsetto, probably imitating his mother. Mark laughs hoarsely, probably not really understanding it, and continues to stare at his feet.

"I _am _sorry," he tells Roger earnestly. "I just… you know, you guys were staring at all those guys and girls and I just wanted to…"

Roger snickers. "Hey, we all get horny," he says casually. "No big deal."

"It _is_," Mark insists.

Feeling an insatiable need to contribute to the conversation, Collins explains, "Mark is Jewish."

"So?" Mark snaps.

Roger nods knowledgably. "That makes sense."

"It does?" Mark asks.

With a laugh, Roger points out, "If you weren't, you'd know that blowing people is not a criminal offense, even if you're thirteen. Well… at thirteen, most guys are _getting _blowjobs, but hey. To each his own."

Mark laughs, honestly this time, as the three of them (plus the sleeping Maureen) reach the car. Roger unlocks it, allowing Collins and Maureen to settle in the back seat, and slips in the driver's seat.

Once the car is in motion again, seat belts all fastened and speed limit nonexistent in the lovely Manhattan, Mark quietly asks, "Hey, Roger?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we… can we go back in there for a sec?" he asks quietly.

Roger sighs. "Mark… you need to pay him, didn't you?" he asks in exasperation. When Mark looks guilty, Roger shakes his head. "Look, fucking is one thing, but you gotta stay away from whores."

"But…"

With another shake of his head, Roger proves his disinterest in what Mark has to say. "_Listen_. You can have casual sex. I don't care. But do it with people like _you_, not people who are going to do just what you tell 'em to."

"I don't get it," Mark confesses.

"Whores have STDs," Roger explains bluntly. "Just don't. If you really need to have sex with someone you're never gonna see again, I'll drive you to the fucking city, and you can get a date in a bar or something. Just not whores."

Mark exhales. "I… how do you know all about this?"

"What?" laughs Roger. "You think I never fucked a whore? Sure I did."

"And?"

Roger, lips closing around a single strand of his hair, waits a long moment before answering. When he does, it is with a sigh. "Mark?"

"Yeah?"

"You still want to know?" Roger varifies.

Mark shrugs. "If you don't want to tell me…"

"HIV," says Roger bluntly.

"_You_?" asks Mark in disbelief.

Roger shakes his head. "He had it. It was really lucky – somehow I didn't get it, but he told me after. And… we didn't use condoms."

"_Smart_," mocks Mark, before realizing something. "Wait. It was a guy?"

Roger nods.

"But you said…"

"I'm an asshole sometimes, okay?" Roger laughs. "I say asshole-ish things that I don't mean. Okay?"

"Okay," says Mark.

The subject is dropped.


	6. Trafficking in Broken Hearts

"Fuck," Roger growls.

Mark looks up. "There's a traffic jam," he announces.

"No shit," chorus Roger and Collins. Mark blushes, but does not amend his declaration, nor does he apologize. He has moved past that stage, it seems, and is willing to be himself and let others know who that is.

An idea strikes Mark suddenly. "Hey," he says slowly. "My, uh, my last foster dad… he has a pretty cool way of getting out of traffic."

"Shoot," says Roger, kicking his feet up on the dashboard.

Rather than commenting on the extremely unsafe practice currently enacted by Roger, Mark surveys the avenue on which they are currently traveling. After a moment, he jerks his thumb toward a street intersecting with their current path, "See that street there?" Mark asks. "Turn onto it."

"The cars go _the other way_ on that street, stupid," Collins informs Mark, rolling his eyes.

Mark shakes his head. "Well, I mean, they do," he concedes, "but just trust me on this, okay?"

Sighing as though this were the stupidest idea he has ever heard in his life, Roger jerks his steering wheel and turns onto the street in question, jetting through it at perhaps ninety miles per hour. Adrenaline pumps through his body as Roger zips through the street for about seven seconds before turning sharply onto an intersecting avenue. "Hey," he says in approval. "No traffic."

"See?" Mark inquires smugly.

Roger rolls his eyes. "You could've gotten us killed," he points out.

"But I didn't."

"Kid's got a point," Collins pipes up.

Roger surveys the street. "Well, Captain Clever," he says, jerking his head toward Mark, "how would you suggest we get out of _this _one?"

Mark raises his eyes to the windshield and winces. The sight he witnesses is a pair of police officers, each holding a flashlight, scanning every car passing the area. "Oh, damn," Mark mutters. "So this is why there was traffic."

"You _think_?" mutters Collins.

A knock on the glass separating Roger from the outside world tells him to roll down the window, and so he does. "Hey, officer," Roger almost sings. "What's up, bud?"

"License and registration, please," the cop says dryly. Little does he know that in the backseat, he is being mimicked by a nearly-silent Collins, whose lips form to mouth the very words spoken by the police officer.

Roger cheekily dangles the requested documents in the cop's face, smiling smugly. "Look," he says, and Mark can detect in his tone how much Roger _loves _taunting police officers. "I kind of have somewhere to be… see, my friend, his name's Benny – he needs to get picked up at the train station, and, well, I kind of want to be on time."

"Really?" the cop inquires, not even pretending to be interested.

Roger sneers, "Yes, really. Anyways, look, if you're looking for doughnuts, I really don't have any, and I'd lend you some money but I don't want to support, y'know, addiction in law enforcement."

"You're clever," snaps the cop. "Look, I don't have time for this. Just breathe in my direction…"

"Oh!" Roger whoops. "You're checking for _intoxication_, officer! Well, why didn't you say so?" He leans back and blows a puff of air into the cop's face. "That good, buddy?"

The officer recoils. "Brush your teeth," he mumbles, and bustles away.

Roger makes no effort to disguise his amusement, even knowing that the cop can hear him with the window open. He, Mark and Collins burst out laughing immediately, while the officer is still in sight, and Roger mockingly slips a beer out of the glove compartment.

"Wow, Roger," laughs Collins. "That's… that's something."

Roger gives him a condescending look. "Feel free," he says, dangling it over the back of his seat. "I mean, of course, _I _would never drink and drive. Shocking."

Mark laughs. "It's okay if everyone else is drinking, then?" he asks.

With a huge shrug, Roger tosses his head back. "Anything's okay with peer pressure, Mark-O."

"Even unprotected sex with prostitutes?" quips Collins.

Maureen's eyes flutter open.

"Damn," Collins mumbles. "Did you hear that part, Mo?"

"Which part?" chirps Maureen. "'Bout drinkin' and drivin' or sex with prosti-somethin's? 'Cause my mommy says that's bad."

"Yeah," Mark snickers. "She _would_, seeing as she _was _one."

Roger cackles. "Wow, Mark, your aunt was a whore?"

"According to diaries I've found in the attic, yes," Mark declares with a hint of amusement. Thinking this over to himself, Roger decides that Mark's display of the tiniest bit of entertainment must mean that he finds this incredibly funny – far beyond that which he lets the other members of the car see. However, these thoughts are interrupted by Collins' next eloquent announcement.

"How cliché," muses Collins. "Diaries in the attic. Very _Wuthering Heights_. Wow, Mark. Next thing you know, you'll be sleeping with her."

Mark glares at him.

Holding his hands up in a gesture of defeat, Collins says, "It was just a _suggestion_."

"It was a bad one," Mark informs him bluntly. "Sorry."

Roger snorts loudly. "Standing up for yourself, huh, Cohen?" he teases. "You're really moving up in the world, pal."

"Hey," protests Mark. "I stand up for myself."

"_Right_," laughs Roger.

Collins interrupts, visibly irritated. "He does," he informs Roger. "Really. In school, we had to dissect frogs, and Mark threw a fit and made everyone sign this petition he made to get the teacher fired. He ended up having to do some crazy shit to get the signatures, but… yeah, in the end, we ended up getting dissection pretty much banned in school – did you notice?" Without waiting for an answer, Collins continues, "And this one time, when they didn't have a vegetarian option in the cafeteria, Mark got most of our grade to just _walk out _during lunch and go over to the organic food place on Dunhams Corner Road."

Roger chuckles. "Wow, Mark," he says in awe. "You're a real daredevil."

"On a family vacation to the Parthenon in Nashville," volunteers Mark, "Collins ran around naked."

Roger's jaw drops. "…Like, in the hotel room, right?"

Mark and Collins simultaneously shake their heads.

"Wow."

Roger swivels his head around to face Maureen. "So, kid, what crazy stuff have _you _done?"

Maureen begins bouncing in her seat. "I don't know," she sings.

"I do," Mark cuts in bluntly. "The little demon _ties her babysitters to chairs_."

Roger, taken aback, takes the opportunity to scoot his chair away from Maureen's twitching fingers.

Mark isn't done. "Oh, and she made Collins a Play-Doh sandwich once," he laughs.

"And I ate it," Collins mumbles. "Not the best thing I've ever eaten."

Roger's face screws up, eyebrows dancing as though he attempted to raise a single eyebrow, failed, and was not content with raising them both. "Wow," he says, trying to hide his awkward attempts at a would-be smooth gesture. "Isn't that toxic?"

"Probably," Collins says with a shrug. "I'll never know _now_, will I?"

Roger snickers. "Maybe it'll give you AIDS or something," he jokes.

Collins shrugs. "It's possible."

Maureen bounces up and down. "What's AIDS?" she asks cheerily.

"Nothing to bounce about," Mark mumbles.

Collins turns to Roger and conspiratorily whispers, "His birth mother had it."

Roger, who is a teenage boy after all, sincerely lacks the ability to be subtle. Therefore, he is unable to keep himself from muttering, "Had? Oh, fuck." He looks to Mark, who remains unfazed, gazing out the window. "Mark?"

"Yeah?" Mark asks, almost sleepily.

"You… you okay?" Roger asks.

Mark shrugs. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Um… no reason," Roger says lamely. He spots a diner and hastily pulls up beside it. "You guys hungry?" he asks.

"No," Collins starts to say, but Maureen is already out the car and halfway to the entrance.

As Roger adjusts his parking, Collins and Mark make their way to the door leading to the diner. "You sure you're okay, Mark?" Collins asks gently.

Mark nods. "You of all people should know I'm not as delicate as everyone seems to think I am," he mutters, obviously upset. "Just because you mention my mom…"

"Look, I didn't mean it like that," Collins explains. "Just, I don't want you to be bottling up your emotions."

Mark raises an eyebrow (successfully). "If I didn't," he points out dryly, "Roger would know I'm in love with him."

Collins, not even the tiniest bit fazed or surprised, merely says, "Then it's just a matter of choosing what emotions to hide, isn't it?"

Mark claps his best friend on the shoulder and enters the diner.


	7. Dining Carelessly

"I," declares Roger in an obscenely loud voice, "want to get something huge for us all to share."

Maureen, who was sleeping prior to the point at which Roger suggested that they have dinner, is wide awake and smiling smugly. "Mark's kosher, Collins is a vegetarian, and I don't eat things that are icky," she informs her babysitter.

"Mark, what do you feel like eating?"

Mark looks up. "Um… me?"

"You _are _Mark, aren't you?" confirms Roger. "Great. What do you want to eat?"

With a shrug of his shoulders, Mark suggests, "Grilled cheese?"

"I _love _grilled cheese!" squeaks Maureen.

Collins rolls his eyes. "In what universe is grilled cheese _huge_?"

Roger attempts to whistle, but inhales instead of exhaling, and only manages to squeak pitiably. He blushes, trying to make up for his error by muttering, "We could get a few."

And so it happens that five grilled cheese sandwiches with fries are ordered, either because Roger cannot count or because he plans on eating two. Whatever the reason, it makes Maureen bubbly and Mark contemplative for a short while. After about ten minutes, Mark looks up at Roger with a curious expression on his face. "Hey," he says slowly. "What's the craziest thing _you've _ever done?"

"Random," Roger sings under his breath, but considers the question. "Um. It was probably… well, I actually can't say it."

"Hooker?" asks Collins under his breath. Roger kicks him beneath the table and jerks his head toward Maureen.

Collins, slightly exasperated, points out, "_That's why I whispered_."

"Oh," says Roger. "Oh. Okay."

Mark snickers. "Second craziest, then?" he asks when Roger turns to face him.

There is a brief hum of thought as Roger ponders. At last, he has an answer. "Okay, well, I was hanging out with my girlfriend April, right? And she takes this thing out of her pocket. It's this tiny packet of powder." He nods his head toward Maureen to indicate that, no, she can't be informed of what he is discussing here. "Right. Like, um, like Pixie Sticks or something. And she… well, you know what you do with that stuff," he says. "And… she shared with me."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Collins hisses. "You're fucking retarded, Roger, you know that?"

Roger, who wore a serious expression to begin with, frowns. "Look, I told you that because you asked, not because I was expecting praise or anything, but – "

"Heroin isn't _crazy_," sneers Collins. "It's _stupid_." He reaches over and pushes Roger's sleeve up. "Look, you're, like, _poking _your veins. What the _fuck_, Roger?"

Looking infuriated, Roger exclaims, "It was _one time_!"

"Well, you shouldn't've, then," Collins says decisively.

"It's not like I'm going to do it again!"

"Yeah," mutters Collins. "You'd better not."

Cackling, Roger demands, "What would _you _know? You're only _thirteen_."

"You think I'm thirteen just 'cause I hang out with Mark?" Collins asks sharply. "I'm seventeen."

"What_ever_," Roger growls, and turns to the wall. "Look, we all mess up, there's no need to just explode on me just 'cause I did drugs _once_, and I know you smoke, so what's the fucking difference?"

Collins rolls his eyes. "Smoking _occasionally_ isn't going to do anything."

"You're in denial!" Roger yells.

Mark huddles up closer to Maureen, feeling inexplicably young.

The waitress enters the scene, and seeing Roger and Collins standing, shouting at each other, she deposits the plates onto the table swiftly and departs at the speed of light. Maureen snatches up two of the five sandwiches, much to Mark's private amusement, and begins munching on them happily. Mark decides to leave two for Roger, since that was his intention to begin with, and not eat one.

Collins and Roger, meanwhile, are both furious. "Look," says Roger at last. "It's not like I'm proud of it, but – "

"If you were _proud _of it," Collins tells him, "I'd actually call your mother."

"Low blow," groans Roger.

Collins smirks. "But you're _not_, right?"

"Right," Roger answers quickly. "Definitely not. Anyway. Look. Haven't you ever done something just 'cause other people were doing it?"

"No."

Roger groans. "Look, it's not _my _fault if you're one of those weirdos who's never – "

"I have," says Mark quietly. When Roger and Collins spin around to face him, he repeats, "I have. Go ahead. I'm listening."

Taken slightly aback, Roger nods. "Um. Yeah. Well, April was… she made it sound so fucking _great_. She was in this whole other _world_. And I… I just wanted to try it, you know?"

Mark nods. "I can understand that," he says softly.

"Hey, hey, _hey_," Collins nearly yells. "Roger! Don't corrupt the kid!" Exasperated, he tells Mark sternly, "If you _ever _get into that shit, I will hunt you down and fucking _kill _you, Mark. A'right?"

With a laugh, Mark promises him, "I'd never consider it."

"I mean, whores are one thing, but – well – good."

Mark smirks. Collins and Roger simultaneously plop sandwiches onto their plates. A single sandwich glares up at Mark, whose stomach is growling. However much he may want it, however, he resists the temptation.

"Mark," says Collins sternly, as though reading his friend's mind. "Eat."

"Nah," says Mark, trying to sound casual. "Roger wanted two."

Roger chokes on his sandwich. "Eat it, Cohen," he growls dryly.

Mark takes it cautiously. "You sure?"

"Yes!" Collins and Roger yells. Under his breath, Collins mutters, "Jesus…"

After a long while, Mark peers at his watch.

"Guys, what time did you tell Benny we'd be there?" he asks nervously.

His mouth full, Roger replies, "An hour from when we left."

Mark springs up, his grilled cheese still clutched in his hand, and sprints to the door.

Checking his own watch, Collins' eyes nearly bulge out of his head. He dumps a few quarters and a Scarsdale bus ticket onto the table and flees the diner, Roger and Maureen following just behind him.


	8. Why Acting Is An Art

**Notes: Mucho thanks to my friend and beta, Christine. **

"Fuck," growls Roger, speeding through streets one at a time.

Collins, sitting beside him, snickers. "Why don't you just pull up to a pay phone and _call _him?"

"Right," drawls Roger. "Because I know the number for Penn Station."

"Phone books," volunteers Mark.

"Shut up," Roger mutters. "I know what I'm doing, okay?"

Maureen giggles. "That's what Mommy always says," she chirps. Then she pauses, and adds gleefully, "Right before she breaks something."

Mark and Collins burst out laughing. Roger fixes them with a deadly stare, and, glowering, he pulls over abruptly on the side of the road. "Check the fucking phone book," he snarls.

Deciding that this is a task for someone lacking any fear whatsoever of Roger, Collins flicks Roger's temple before stepping out of the car and peering into the phone booth. "You're in luck!" he yells, feigning delight. "There is indeed a phone book in there!"

Roger rolls his eyes. "Well, _check _it," he mumbles.

Collins obeys, and a moment later, begins to dial the number. He holds the receiver to his ear. "Fuck," he mutters. "Anyone got cash? I," he says loudly, "put all of _my _cash on the _table _for the _waitress_. Seeing as we didn't pay for our _meals_."

"What's with the _emphasizing_?" Mark pipes up.

"Shut up, twit," Roger says, flicking Mark affectionately on the forehead. Mark wrinkles up his face, but doesn't wince. He can tell that Roger is acting as a friend, for once, and somehow, Mark appreciates it. He reaches over and drops several quarters into Collins' hand.

"Thanks," mumbles Collins as his fingers dance across the numbers. After a moment, he loudly inquires, "Could you page Benjamin Coffin, please?"

Roger looks up sharply. "How'd you know his name?"

"You _told _us, stupid," Mark mutters, and Roger has to think about this. While fairly certain that he referred to Benny only as "my friend," he still isn't quite sure. Still, he knows that Benjamin Coffin isn't exactly a rare name around the campus of Scarsdale High, and surely, Collins would know him – Collins knows _everyone_.

Collins is talking into the phone, his voice rushed. "Look, don't panic, okay? We're going to be there as soon as possible. We're just running a little late due to some problems with traffic." He closes his mouth abruptly after that word, not wanting to accidentally reveal the details of a club, prostitution, and dinner. "Okay. 'Bye," he says quickly, and jumps hastily into the car.

"What's going on?" Roger asks warily, half-wanting to know the answer, half-not.

His companion chooses his words carefully. His eyes partially closed, he at last responds, his voice clipped, "Gang-fight."

"This is _New York_," Roger laughs. "How infrequent could that be?"

Collins shakes his head. "For all the hyper security of Penn Station," he says slowly, "they're not letting trains come into the station. It's _big_. Knives and guns and shit. Benjamin's panicking."

Roger tries to digest this piece of worrisome information, but fails. "Benny," he says abruptly. "His name's Benny. Don't call him Benjamin; you sound like our English teacher."

"Or," suggests Collins brightly, "the dean, who I'm sure has had his fair share of words with Benjamin over the years."

"_Benny_," Roger whines.

Giggling, Maureen echoes him. "_Benny_."

Mark quietly stares at his hands. "I don't like that guy," he mumbles.

"Hey," Roger interrupts sharply. "You have something to say it, say it loud enough for me and Collins to hear you."

"I can hear him just fine," Collins points out. Roger waves his hand in dismissal.

Mark, his voice at a forced volume, robotically repeats, "I don't like Benny Coffin."

"Why _not_?" Roger wails.

Maureen looks up. "You don't remember stuff very well, do you?" she asks bluntly. "Mark already _said_. He doesn't like Benny 'cause he beats people up."

"He does _not_," Roger lies, well aware of the fact that it is a lie. "And he totally didn't say that."

Mark shrugs. "I don't know, I might've."

"He says it to _me _all the time," Collins mumbles.

With a giggle, Maureen adds, "And me."

"Then he's a very good liar," Roger says, and that is all.

The rest of the drive to Penn Station is silent, save for the rhythmic tapping of Maureen's feet against Collins' seat.

Eventually, a sharp "Shut up!" comes from someone in the car – most likely the three teenagers, if not just one of them – and Maureen tucks her heels beneath her thighs.

From there on, all that can be heard is the whistle of wind as it slaps Mark's face, peeking into the car by slipping inside the window.

---

In Penn Station, things are chaotic and disastrous.

Benny, along with two girls just around his age, is sitting quietly off to the side, trying not to pay attention to the screaming woman in her mid-fifties who is claiming that "We're all gonna die! We're all gonna die!"

It's difficult.

The fact that Benny himself isn't shouting it is, however, remarkable.

He stares at the lines on his palms. He wonders if the abrupt plunge of one of the lines means that he's going to die. He also wonders if he cares.

He has a lot to live for. His best friend, his sisters, his (constantly fighting) parents, that gorgeous girl Roger's dating but who is really sleeping with Benny off to the side –

Maybe it's better not to think about April.

He's never been much of an artist, but sitting here with the silvery glints of knives catching his eyes, he wonders if he might be able to create something worthwhile. Roger's always preaching about how art stems from emotion, from needing an outlet where one can put one's emotions – love, anger, helplessness, whatever. Roger has a lot to say about art and songwriting, but Benny has never given any of it a second thought. Until now.

What art would he even create, anyway? He can't draw, can't sing, and definitely can't write. His only strength seems to be in the art of persuasion – and is that even an art? It seems more like a form of manipulation than anything else, and while he is certainly adept in that department, it isn't an _art_. It isn't something he could possibly be remembered for.

But…

Isn't it acting?

He looks around. Everyone around him is acting, if that's what it is. Everyone is staring into their own laps if seated alone, or chattering eagerly to a traveling partner – a wife, a husband, a sibling or, in most cases, a lover. Only one woman seems willing to express herself, and chooses to do so in hysterics.

Benny doesn't want to be _hysterical_. What would be the point of _that_? He wants to get his thoughts and point across, he wants to let his emotions pour out of him – productively.

He doesn't want to sit here and do nothing. He doesn't want to run around the room, screaming and crying.

He settles for a compromise, and gets to his feet hesitantly.

_Why am I doing this? _

_I'm going to die anyway, though_.

He crosses the room and taps a man on the shoulder. The man's gun protrudes from his belt. There is no hint of remorse or contemplation in his eyes as he turns around to face Benny. "Yeah?" he grunts, one hand on the gun.

"I was just wondering," says Benny mildly, loudly, "when you thought you'd be done here. 'Cause, see, I have things I need to do, and sitting here under siege just isn't one of them."

The man is taken aback.

He hesitates. He turns to his surrounding companions and enemies.

"Well, uh," he says quietly, suddenly not half the terrifying aggressor he was a moment ago, "do you think now would be a good time for us to leave?"

Benny smiles charmingly. "That'd be perfect," he says brightly.

"Uh, great," the man replies. "We'll just be going, then."

"Excellent."

Benny returns to his seat and kicks his legs up onto the table beside him, wearing a broad smirk as the gang members, no longer frightening, exit the train station.

A car pulls up into the parking lot a moment later, and Benny, somehow aware of who it is, gets to his feet and joins Roger, Collins, Mark and Maureen in the car.


	9. Cold and Frozen

**Author's Notes: I am so, so sorry. I have no idea why this took so long. Well, I kind of do. I had this computer, and the internet was all screwed up. I had this chapter on that computer, and it turned out I had to get the whole hard drive wiped. So. I rewrote it, because there's really no excuse for that. Sorry!**

Almost immediately after getting in the car, Benny crossed his arms over his chest, kicking his feet up onto the dashboard. (His presence had forced Mark to squeal and scramble into the back seat, where he was not-quite-welcomed by Maureen and Collins.)

"What's with the kids?" Benny demands.

Roger rolls his eyes. "I'm _babysitting_, Coffin," he drawls. "Of course there are kids. You met 'em?"

Benny shrugs. "Prob'ly not. What are you guys, like, eighth grade?"

Collins arches an eyebrow. "I'm _seventeen_," he announces.

Coughing, Benny snorts. "Sure you are."

"He really is," Roger remarks dryly, not moving his eyes from the road. "He's, like, not supposed to be babysat. Those other two, they're Maureen and Mark, and they're cousins or something."

Quickly, Mark and Maureen chorus, "Adoptive cousins."

Benny bursts out laughing. "_That _kid has to have a babysitter? Damn. I know you, don't I, kid?"

Mark stares at his lap silently.

"Yeah, you know him pretty fuckin' well," Collins remarks. "Allow me to draw your attention to a certain beating you gave an innocent freshman earlier this year. You said he touched your car; he said he didn't. And… _kapow_! Can we get a little instant replay here?"

Mark glowers at him.

Roger turns to Benny. Quietly, he murmurs, "Did you really do that?"

"Probably," Benny replies coolly. "Why?"

With a sigh and a shrug, Roger shakes his head. "No reason. No big deal."

Maureen suddenly breaks the silence by asking, "Can I sit in the front?"

Mark claps a hand over her mouth.

Benny laughs. "Sure," he says, and extends a hand to Maureen. She takes it, climbing on top of the middle compartment in the car and bouncing onto Benny's lap. "You're nice," she announces, nestling into his arms. "Daddy doesn't let me sit on _his _lap in the car."

"No, I'm sure he doesn't," Benny responds, sounding a bit suffocated as Maureen shifts. "You… you sure like your junk food, don't you?"

Collins _tsk_s. "Encouraging eating disorders in the youth of America? Shame on you, Benjamin."

Benny chokes on a laugh. "I like you, kid. What's your name?"

His arms crossed dramatically over his chest, Collins utters, "Collins. Tom Collins."

"Benny Coffin." He swings his arm over the back of the seat and receives a high-five from Collins, who smirks at Mark. "And how 'bout your friend back there?"

Mark squeaks out an answer. Benny, of course, cannot hear it, and so Collins repeats, "That's Mark. Cohen. Mark Cohen. He's thirteen."

"Ew," Benny mutters. "Thirteen-year-olds are brats."

Maureen shrieks with laughter. "He is, he is, he _is_!" she howls.

"Um, yeah," Roger mumbles. "Right. Yo. Coffin. How long can you shut your trap for?"

Benny gestures with his hands, weighing them evenly. "Eh. Five minutes, give or take another minute or two."

"Want to try?" Roger asks hopefully.

Cackling, Benny smirks. "Nah."

"Fuck you."

"Fuck _you_."

Jumping in for some random reason, Maureen echoes, "Fuck you."

Everyone else's eyebrows skyrocket as they swivel around to face Maureen.

"What?" she asks, moving around again and causing Benny to squeeze his eyes shut in pain as her heel hits _just _the wrong spot. "Everyone else was saying it."

Collins slaps his forehead.

"You gonna get in trouble for making her say that?" Benny asks Mark casually.

Mark shakes his head. Quietly, he explains, "Her parents aren't really around much. I stay with her aunt and uncle."

"I _see_," says Benny.

Silence.

"I want ice cream," Maureen declares.

The car's other occupants, all of whose pockets are empty and refuse to jingle, all turn to Benny. "You got money?" Roger mutters surreptitiously.

Benny considers this. "Thirty, forty. Why?"

"Ice cream, fuckhead."

Benny shrugs. "Sure. No problem."

He pauses.

"For me."

Roger gives him a Look, and Benny sighs. "Oh, all _right_, for you too."

Still, Roger glares at him.

"And Collins," he adds begrudgingly.

Maureen squeals, horrified.

"And Maureen."

And somehow, having assumedly forgotten about the car's fifth occupant, Roger swerves the car into an exit and heads for the nearest Dairy Queen.

Mark doesn't say a word.


	10. Thanks and Apologies

"Let's pretend you're a teenager," Benny declares, pointing to Maureen as the five residents of Scarsdale stand in line for ice cream. "And I have a little game for us to play."

"Dude, that's sick," Roger drawls. "I know what kinds of _games _you play."

Horrified, Benny quickly elaborates, "A _word _game. Kind of. A talking game."

Roger is still skeptical, as is Collins. Mark stands quietly, trying to block out the conversation.

"Okay," Benny says, and almost begins to begin explaining his game when the five of them come up in line. He turns to his companions. "What do you guys want?"

Maureen jabs an image on the menu laminated on the counter and declares, "I want _that_!"

The picture is of an enormous strawberry shortcake, complete with gooey strawberries on top and pinkish whipped cream all over. To top it all off, the plate itself (in the shape and colors of a strawberry) is streaked with a strawberry topping.

Benny shudders. "How much is it and how many people does it serve?" he asks warily.

The lanky pimpled guy behind the counter laughs. "Nineteen bucks, and it serves six to eight."

"I eat a lot," Roger warns Benny. "And so does Maureen, I'm guessing."

Still bitter from having been sat on, Benny mumbles, "Yeah, I know." He looks at Collins. "What do you think? Should we get it?"

Not looking at Mark but thinking of him, Collins swiftly replies, "Yeah."

"Fine," Benny grumbles, and digs in his pocket for the money.

"Yay!" Maureen squeals, and races across the establishment to find a table.

Dutifully, Mark follows her.

---

"So," says Benny, sitting beside Roger on one side of the bench-booth occupied by the five traveling companions. "We're going to play a game, okay? Who here has heard of the secret game?"

Collins turns to him. "Is that the game where we all talk about what celebrities we think are gay, pregnant, or dead?"

"No!"

"Good."

"Well," continues Benny, "We're gonna tell secrets. Embarrassing ones. Whatever. It doesn't matter, 'cause I know I'm never going to look twice at any – most – of you again."

Roger and Collins give him patronizing looks.

"Well, yeah, um, half of you," Benny mutters. "Okay. Um."

"You go first, then, smart-aleck," Roger drawls.

His cheeks reddening, Benny ponders. "I had my first kiss with Amy Perlowsky."

Shrill shrieks of laughter punctuate this admission. Even Maureen, so many years younger than the others, giggles hysterically. Only Mark remains quiet.

"Amy is on the _chess _team," Roger sneers.

Collins glances at Mark.

"What? Is _he_ on the chess team too?" laughs Benny.

Silently, Mark nods his head.

Roger chokes on a laugh. "Chess is for dorks," he proclaims.

"It's an intellectual stimulative," Mark and Collins chorus, Collins in a mocking declaration and Mark in a mumble that is barely audible.

"Well, is that your secret?" Roger asks sharply. "That you're on the chess team?"

Mark shrugs. "I guess," he mutters.

"No, that's not fair," Benny interjects. "We _asked _him. He would've answered anyway."

Roger glances at Collins, whose face is blank. "I'd say Mark has some pretty world-stopping secrets," Collins remarks.

Benny and Roger give him looks of disbelief.

"Really."

"What? That he has a crush on Roger? That's obvious." With a snort, Benny leans back in his seat. "C'mon, you can't say you didn't notice," he continues, seeing the horrified expressions on the others' faces.

Maureen tugs on the hem of Benny's shirt. "Don't boys have crushes on girls?" she asks.

"The normal ones," Benny drawls.

Collins abruptly stands up, knocking over a chair of the table next to them.

"What? Are you gay too?" sneers Benny, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Yes," Collins utters. "What are you going to do about it, hmm? You've been nice to me ever since you got in the car, so are you going to take that back now that you know I'm gay?"

Benny shifts awkwardly.

"I'm bi," Roger remarks dryly.

Astonished, Mark, Benny and Collins chorus, "You are?"

"What's _bi_?" Maureen whines.

Roger rolls his eyes. "Yeah," he answers, ignoring the seven-year-old. "I mean, I wouldn't _not _go out with a guy I liked if he asked me out."

Benny, who may be dying of laughter at the moment, chokes out, "What about _him_?" His head is buried between his arms, resting on the table as he cackles hysterically, but he raises a finger to indicate Mark.

Mark tries to hide his excitement, but clearly fails when he raises his eyes to meet Roger's.

"Well," says Roger casually, "I said a guy I _liked_."

Trying to make as little a fuss as possible, Mark rises from the table and quietly makes his way to the bathroom.

Equally silently, Maureen follows him. Nobody objects as the seven-year-old slips into the men's bathroom behind the only teenage boy ever to enter this establishment without causing some kind of commotion. "Mark?" she asks quietly, once inside the single stall. She sits on the floor, her legs crossed in a pretzel, watching as Mark sits down on top of the lid of the toilet with his legs not quite touching the ground.

"Yeah?" he mumbles.

"What happened?"

Mark's voice is quiet, but clear. "I liked Roger. Like. You know what I mean, right? The way… uh…" He frantically searches for a Disney analogy. "Uh, the way Wendy liked Peter, you know? In Peter Pan?"

"Wendy didn't like Peter."

Mark rolls his eyes. "Look, okay, it was the way Cinderella liked that prince."

"She _loved _him," Maureen elaborates.

"Right. Well, I like – I love Roger that way."

"But you're a boy."

Mark shrugs. "The prince loved Cinderella too, didn't he?"

"But Roger's a boy."

Sighing, Mark explains, "When a boy loves a boy or a girl loves a girl, it's called being gay. And it's fine. Perfectly normal. Okay?"

She shrugs. "Okay."

"Well, I loved Roger that way. And Benny asked Roger if he would… if Roger would, um, date me, if I asked him to."

"What's date?"

"Don't your parents ever go out at night? Like they're doing right now. When two people who love or like each other romantically – do you know what romantic means? Good – go out, then it's called a date."

She nods.

"Okay. Well, Roger said he wouldn't, and even though he would date a boy if he wanted to, he wouldn't want to do that with me because he doesn't like me."

Maureen's eyes widen. Her mouth falls open just a bit, her chipped front tooth peeking out. Without another word, she straightens up and races across the floor and over to Mark, settling on his lap with her arms around his neck. "That's mean," she mumbles into his shoulder.

"Yeah," he whispers. "Yeah, it is. But it's not a crime, not to love someone…"

She doesn't respond, just rubs her hand over his back in circles. "My mommy does this to me when I'm sad," she tells Mark softly, and continues.

"Thanks," Mark says, his voice cracking.

Maureen kisses him on the cheek. "I don't love you or anything, but I think you're nice and funny and you're my cousin, so I can do that, right?"

Mark laughs. "Adoptive cousin. But yeah, don't worry about it. You can."


	11. Confession

Heavy knocking on the single-stall bedroom jolts Mark and Maureen out of their serenity. Abruptly, Mark looks up. "Yes?" he calls awkwardly, a hand on the floor to help him get to his feet if necessary.

On the other end of the door is Collins' voice. "We're going," he drones.

The lock slowly clicks open. Maureen opens the door, peering up at Collins. "Is Roger gonna be nice now?" she demands, hands on her hips.

Neither Collins or Mark can stifle a laugh. "Roger!" Collins yells, beckoning his friend over. "Maureen has a question for you, man."

"Are you going to be nice to Mark?" Maureen inquires, her tone betraying the nature of the consequences should Roger choose to say no. She grabs Mark's hand, tugging him toward her. As for Mark, his eyes are on the floor, a blush tinging his cheeks. He mumbles something inaudible.

Roger looks Maureen up and down. "Why do you care?" he asks.

"'Cause Mark's my cousin and he's my friend," she replies swiftly, calmly.

Mark mumbles, "Maureen, let it go." He is clearly embarrassed.

Suddenly there is another figure behind Roger. Benny is there, arms crossed over his chest. "What's the problem now?" he drawls.

Maureen looks up at him sweetly. "I'm checking to see if Roger's gonna be nice to Mark. Are _you _gonna?"

Benny shrugs. "Maybe. Probably not."

"How blunt," Collins murmurs. "I say you should be nice to the kid. He's my friend. And I think you know what happens to people who go against my friends."

Stifling laughter, Roger repeats, "How blunt." Then he adds, "Sure, whatever. I wasn't mean to him anyway. Was I, Mark?"

All eyes turn to the blonde. Mark stares at Roger's stomach, not wanting to keep staring at the ground but too embarrassed to raise his eyes all the way. "Um," he mutters. "Um. Well. Mostly."

"What'd I do wrong?" Roger asks sharply.

And suddenly Mark is aware that whatever his response is, it will somehow open him up to endless taunting, and probably some sort of violent reaction from the assumedly homophobic Benjamin. If he tells the truth, that Roger may have just broken his heart, then Mark is guaranteed that beating from Benny. But if he lies, then there's always Maureen and her big mouth.

Still, something keeps Mark from outright turning away and refusing to answer. He wants to tell Roger the truth, if only just for the sake of saying it aloud, admitting it. Telling Maureen about his feelings for Roger did nothing for Mark's throbbing heart, which yearns to admit it to Roger.

_I love you_.

He imagines himself saying it in a thousand different ways. Mark is a filmmaker, or yearns to be, and pictures himself as any of a million different characters. A boy professing his love for a girl at a prom, a woman responding to a marriage proposal, a man admitting his feelings to a woman who is seeing somebody else. Each scenario ends differently – some sadly, some happily, some vaguely. Mark frowns. He wants certainty.

At last, he decides that looking at movie examples is not the best solution. He closes his eyes and _thinks_, trying to imagine how Roger could react.

_"I love you," Mark would say. _

_Roger's eyes would widen. His knuckles would whiten, eyebrows shooting up into his hairline. _

_"Well," Roger would drawl, thumbs tucked into his belt loops while swaying from side to side, "I don't love you." _

Mark shakes his head. It is far from the paradise he wants to imagine. He gulps and forces himself to think of a different scenario.

_"I love you," Mark would say, his eyes earnest, hands splayed out on the table in front of him._

_And Roger? Roger would stand there, a finger frozen in the middle of twirling his hair around it. "You love me," he would repeat in a monotone. _

_"I love you," Mark would repeat. _

_Slowly, a smile would appear on Roger's face. "Well," he would say, almost smugly, "you have good taste, then." _

_"Because of you?" Mark would ask tentatively. _

_Roger would smirk. "Because I love you," he would say, and a moment later, his lips would be on Mark's, his hands above Mark's shoulders as they leaned into the wall and kissed._

And as absurdly implausible that is, Mark blurts it out.

"I love you," he says. "I do. I love you, Roger. I think you're intelligent and fantastically handsome and witty and charming and as close to perfect as a seventeen-year-old can get, and I know I love you. And the only thing I _don't _think you are is the kind of person who would love me back. But that's okay. Because, well, because I love you."

All eyes in the Dairy Queen were on Mark.

Cashiers stare at him, frozen in the middle of counting up change. Numbers slip out of their minds as they watch this gay kid professing his love for a boy who is obviously straight. Rather than calculating the change they must give, they are suddenly focused on deciding what they will tell their friends when they get home tonight.

The patrons, mostly strangers, stare at Mark as well. There is no buzzing, no whispering, no shriek of delight as some other kid named Roger makes his way through the crowd and says, "I love you too." There is none of that. As he turns back to face his own group, Mark feels hopelessly alone.

Maureen's eyes are on him, so earnest and willing to help him feel better. Her arms are wrapped tightly around Mark's leg, daring anyone to mess with him.

Then there is Collins, also standing close enough to Mark to get the message across, to convey the message that anyone who dares so much as to _look _at Mark the wrong way will immediately be swiftly and violently removed from the establishment.

Mark glances up at Benny, too afraid to meet Roger's eyes. Benny's are cold, with a smirk playing at his lips.

At last, Roger seems to focus.

"Well," he says, clearly aware that everybody else in the ice cream store is staring at him, "We should probably get going, then. Benny, I think I'm gonna relax for the rest of the ride – do you want to drive?"

And suddenly everything is back to normal again. Everyone is talking, faces red as they try to blurt out everything on their minds.

Everyone, that is, except Mark.

It's a ten-minute drive from here to his house, and he doesn't know if he can manage it.

"Roger?" he whispers.

But the babysitter ignores him, merely walking to the door and proudly marching through.

The hands on Mark's shoulders are not enough to keep him from hating himself, the world, and everyone who he has ever come into contact with.

Except Roger.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and pretends he never said anything at all. He is still pretending when he slides into the backseat of the car, eyes closed as his fantasy world swirls around him, but never quite touching.


	12. The End

The car pulls into the driveway, and Benny pushes Maureen off his lap before the car even comes to a complete stop. Moving at about the same speed, Mark throws the door open and hightails it up the driveway and toward the house, fumbling in his pocket for the keys. He doesn't care that everyone is staring at him. He just really, really, _really _wants to get away. And go to sleep, preferably not to dreams of Roger.

As he is twisting the keys in the lock, he feels Collins' hand on his shoulder. He starts to thrust away, but Collins is much stronger than him, so he discovers he doesn't have much choice as to where he wants to be.

Roger walks over, pulls the door open, and ushers Maureen inside and up the stairs. Benny follows, leaving Mark and Collins standing awkwardly by the door. "What do you want?" Mark asks softly, feeling that in the darkness it might be more appropriate to be quieter than he is in the daylight, which admittedly isn't very loud.

Collins sighs. "Isn't it obvious, Mark? I want you to talk to Roger. The only reason he hasn't talked to you since… you know… is 'cause guys like him don't like confrontation."

Mark recalls witnessing certain arguments between Roger and his girlfriend in the hallways, and can't help but disagree. Seeing that look in his eyes, Collins laughs. "Okay, okay. Well, not confrontation with people he doesn't know very well."

The blond shrugs. "And what do you want me to do about that?" he asks weakly.

Collins groans. "I'll say this slowly so that even you can get it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Stop apologizing for everything you do. Stop whimpering around the boy you like and _start asserting yourself_. In case you haven't noticed, the girl he does like – " Mark cringes – "is kind of an exhibitionist. Follow her example, why don't you?"

Mark scrunches up his face. "What do you mean?"

With another groan, Collins pulls his gloves off with his teeth and tucks them under his chin as he gets to work. Ignoring Mark's whimper of protest, he yanks the other boy's jeans down a little bit, ties the hem of his shirt into a knot to expose some skin, and ruffles his hair a little bit. "Oh, and here." He pulls his fake-leather jacket off and ties it around Mark's waist. "There you go, bud. Draws attention to your – ya know," he adds with a conspiratorial wink.

"Now," says Collins brightly. "I'll be in your room." He pushes Mark back with a single palm and heads inside.

About three minutes pass before Roger and Benny come barrelling out of the house, laughing and shoving each other. Then Roger spots Mark and abruptly quiets down. "Uh… Benny, look, can you wait for me in the car?" he asks grudgingly, obviously annoyed.

Mark is tempted to apologize and let Roger and Benny continue their fun, but he bites it back, spotting Collins in an upstairs window. He sees his friend smile, and idly wonders if there are tiny microphones planted all around his body like there were that time he went on a date with a guy Collins liked.

Benny nods and heads for the car. After the door closes, Roger turns to Mark. "What's up, kid?"

For a second, Mark wonders if he's going to throw up. He tries to control himself and it works. For the most part. "Uh," he says. "Look. Um. About what I said in the Dairy Queen…"

Roger sighs, obviously expecting an apology.

Hell, even Collins, who _gave _Mark his pep talk, is practically expecting an apology.

"…I just wanted to know… if you had something to say about it. You know. Some kind of… _response_, maybe?" he asks hopefully.

Roger gapes.

"Uh – I just meant – " Mark begins, but shuts up quickly. "Um… well?"

Roger sighs and looks up from his sneakers. He looks for a moment like he is going to say something serious, but then…

"So, how 'bout them Yankees, huh?" Roger asks chipperly.

Mark sighs. "Roger, please?"

"Fine, fine," Roger says, then jokes, "What were we talking about again?"

Irritated, Mark "reminds" him, "What I said in the Dairy Queen. Do you have some kind of response?"

"Yeah!" Roger exclaims. Then he scrunches up his face. "Uh… thanks?" He laughs at his own joke.

Mark, on the other hand, does not. He sighs. "Roger…?"

Roger finally straightens up. "You want a response?" he snaps. "Here's one. You're thirteen, I'm sixteen. I'm your _babysitter_. I think you spend too much time whining and lusting instead of actually doing stuff. And also? You're shit at cooking."

Mark is half-ready to walk off in depression, but he doesn't. He scowls. "Yeah? Well, who gives you the right to judge, asshole? You're the one still dating a girl you _know _is cheating on you just because you get in with all her hot friends. Don't even deny it," he adds bitchily. "I read your blog."

"I _locked _my blog," Roger muses.

"Yeah, well. The password "password" isn't exactly hard to guess, buddy." Mark pats him condescendingly on the shoulder, smirking twistedly.

"You know what? I thought you were a whining little shit who couldn't stand up to a five-year-old. And you know what?"

Mark tilts his head expectantly.

"You actually have balls. Who knew!?" Roger asks in half-shock and half-pretend-shock.

As Mark stands there, eyes wide and jaw dropped, Roger pulls the younger boy by his collar and presses his lips hard against Mark's.

It's more a contest at first than a kiss, but then it gets harder and faster and rougher, and within seconds, the boys' hands are in each other's hair and on their backs and in their shirts, and Mark is pressing Roger against his car. Collins and Benny look on in something close to amusement, while a shocked Maureen observes from her bedroom window and giggles.

"Hey!" Benny yells, "accidentally" pressing on the horn with his chest. "You want to get home, I don't know, _ever_?"

"I have to be here when their parents get back, anyway," Roger yells, pulling himself away from Mark for half a second. "_You _go home, why don't you?"

"Fine, I will," Benny retorts.

As he pulls away, he yells, "And I'm taking the car!"

His lips hard against Mark's, Roger yells, "I don't care!"

Well, he does care … later. As in, when he wakes up in the morning in Mark's bed with two _very _disapproving adoptive parents standing over them.


End file.
